Geography of Worship
A brush of breath,
draws salt on skin—
a map not made for others' eyes.
Tongue becomes compass,
plotting warm constellations
along the swell of geography
no cartographer could name.
Each curve, a coastline.
Each pulse, a tide—
I chase the pull of gravity
down to the marrow of want.
This is worship.
Not lust—
in a chapel
with no ceiling.
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Posted Jun 13, 2025, 10:45 PM UTC
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